Days and days and painful days before Hobbie the creamer merchant and his enormous, glistening tongue disappeared, there was strife in the creamer kingdom. This was before Hobbie had taken to calling the paint kid “crap-o” but before he ran out of pie. You remember that old story, I just know it.
Please have a seat, while Mr. Packy brings the syringe.
Mr. Packy, please bring the syringe for our guest, por favor!
Now then. The strife was a terrible kind of strife, one that Hobbie referred to as “turrrrible” when he spoke of it at all. Mostly it caused him to lash out and strike with his meaty fists at anyone standing nearby. Hobbie would howl with laughter when he broke the facial bones of a small child, a traffic policeman, transvestite census takers, or mildew inspectors. Yes, there were mildew inspectors back in the day, honey-child. Hobbie would just as easily break their faces as anyone else's, and he never made excuses – he would just howl with laughter.
Ahh, thank you Mr. Packy. This is a delightful syringe. Thank you. Thank you.
Now then, honey-child, just open your mouth and stick out your tongue a little bit, OK? Why? Well, I need to administer the medicine. Do you remember how Delores used to pronounce it “medi-cyne”? I always enjoyed that.
OK. Now just allow me to violate your pristine, virgin tongue with this perfect, shining needle. There might only be a small bit of blood. Hold still, honey-child. OK. I have it in. Now allow me to slowly push in the plunger. But while I have this lovely, sexy hypodermic needle sticking in your tongue, let me ask you if you have ever thought about how strange it is that we call this part of the syringe the “plunger”? We also refer to that tool one uses for clearing excessive toilet tissue and fecal matter out of one's lavatory plumbing a “plunger.” Isn't that odd? And now it is sticking in your tongue, about to deliver the medicine.
Mmmmm. There we go. I have plunged. Is your tongue on fire? Or is it icy-cold? Perhaps you might describe it as “icy-hot.” You can put your tongue back into your mouth now, honey-child. I need to tell you about the strife in the creamer kingdom.
It seems that Hobbie had been in love. He had been in love with a pie-hole, as it turned out, but then we all knew that much about him. But the pie-hole which he loved was just that – a pie-hole and nothing else. It was a disembodied pie-hole, and it was a very clean pie-hole on top of that. Clean, disembodied pie-holes always made Hobbie's juices flow, and this one caused a veritable deluge. Hobbie knew that he must have this pie-hole. He must possess it.
The dreadful part of the story is that the clean, disembodied pie-hole that was the object of Hobbie's affection was already spoken for. Blue Charly, the squeezer's son, HE had long been the paramour of the pie-hole, and he would not allow anyone or anything to come in between him and his beloved pie-hole. When Hobbie heard of this, he howled once again and beat his private parts with a two-by-four until they were bloodied and swollen. Yes, it would have been easier to rend his garments, but it would have been less dramatic, I think you would agree, honey-child.
Well, Hobbie devised a plan whereby he might be able to obtain that for which he had so long sought. On a lovely day in the wet-month, Hobbie lured Blue Charly into the old tool shed behind Dr. Wheezer's gynecological clinic. When Blue Charly allowed his attention to be focused on an old draw-plane that Hobbie showed him, his tongue slowly and rather absentmindedly lolled out of his mouth. Hobbie moved quickly and stuck a lovely, sexy hypodermic needle into Blue Charly's tongue, and depressed the plunger. Blue Charly's tongue grew icy-hot and his eyes glazed over.
“The pie hole does not love you anymore,” said Hobbie.
“The pie hole does not love me?” asked Blue Charly.
“No, the pie hole is in love with another.”
“Yes,” said Hobbie, “and you must now return to your home, Blue Charly, and close the door...and close the windows...and pull the drapes...and turn off the lights...and sit in your favorite chair...and open that large vein that runs down your neck.”
Suffice to say that Blue Charly turned around that very instant and left the tool shed. He was last seen walking toward his house and...well, I will just inform you that Blue Charly was not heard from again. But you probably expected me to say that.
After Blue Charly was gone, Hobbie went on his way to find and seduce the pie-hole of his desires. Imagine the shock and the horror that Hobbie felt when he heard the news that the pie-hole had fallen ill and died just that very morning. Hobbie screamed in a fit of rage and threw his syringe as far as he could. The lovely, sexy hypodermic needle tumbled end over end until it stuck upright in the front lawn of a house on Johnson Street.
That was my house, and that was my lawn. And this is the lovely, sexy hypodermic needle.
And that is the story of the strife in the creamer kingdom.
And you must now return to your home, honey-child, and close the door...and close the windows...and pull the drapes...